It’s a breezy Sunday night. Almost cool, like October really ought to be and sometimes isn’t here in Arkansas. The house is quiet, the lamp is low, and all the dishes are done. I’m making time to write, which always makes me happy.
I should be golden.
I’m not. There are papers to grade, class planning to do, and a frighteningly long list of things I Did Not Get Done during the Fall Break. I’m a little ranty, a little mean about the papers I did grade. Not because they’re bad, but because they oozed into break despite my best efforts. There’s a spot on my carpet that needs attention, and there are spiders in my garage that need killing.
This is my M.O., my downfall. Intellectually and pedagogically I know for certain that writing doesn’t require a perfect moment or a room of one’s own. I’m also fully aware that creativity isn’t necessarily a special, spiritual moment of jupiter-aligned-with-mars magic. I teach this every day.
I just fall back into it every once in a while. It’s like eating cheesecake. I can go for a year being smart and strong and then, POW. There’s cheesecake on my fork. The writing habit is just as mysteriously interrupted. I don’t know how it happens.
That’s actually the reason for this blog. A self-imposed daily post gives me enough reason to make the words come out. The posting itself keeps me from whining and ranting pointlessly, which is what happens in the little journal I carry around.
At any rate, the papers still need grading, the spiders and spots need eradication, and I don’t have anything to wear to work tomorrow. Who cares? The dishes are done, I’ve written my post, and there’s no cheesecake anywhere near me.