Have those days when the words won't come? Can't complete a thought. That's me right now.
Not much to write about. I'm not inspired these days. Honestly, I've been agonizing over a story that I want to write. It's been haunting me for about 5 years but every time I sit down to write the story the words don't come, they read like my 8 yr old could have written them. I wad up the pages in a ball and toss them in the garbage. I know I shouldn't self edit. I should write and write and then pull the story from the ramblings. I know that that's my problem. I haven't written the story but I've seen it in my mind, in my dreams, I love the characters already. This story is struggling to come up to the surface, to bubble over the top and be heard, it wants it's characters to see the light of day. I keep them in the shadows because I don't think I'm worthy to write their tale. I've been searching for my copy of Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind and Annie Lamott's Bird by Bird. I need to be told that it's ok to write the story, that I'm writing for myself and the characters and no other reason. That it's not a waste of time. I need permission to write. Wild Mind gave me my writing back years ago when I ran across it hidden away on a bookstore shelf. It gave me permission to write crap.
I'm also not inspired by needle or hook. Nothing is calling to me these days. I have so much I want to finish, I want to do, I want to create. I know, I know, get off your fat ass and finish something, just do it. Don't sit around whining about all the things you can't finish because of this or that reason. Screw the reasons, solve the damn problems and get on it with it already.
The kitchen needs mopping. The kitchen always needs mopping. Walking across it at the moment reminds me of walking across tape, sticky side up. Ick. Why can't anyone in this house pour a glass of anything to drink and put it back in the fridge without leaving a trail all across the kitchen? Why is this such a difficult task? My summer seems to be a neverending mopping-vacuuming-laundrylalapalooza.
I've been running from the cleaning and hiding in a corner with a book. Not great literature, nothing that makes me a better person or educates me. Just nice quick mysteries that take me away from the heat, the whining kids and the piles of laundry and sticky floors. I've been reading M.C. Beaton's Hamish MacBeth and Agatha Raisin mysteries. They take me a way for a little while and require very little thinking. Sometimes that is a very good thing.
My DH has been home since Friday and I'm counting the hours until he goes back to work tomorrow morning. I love the man but he's driving me crazy. I love my quiet mornings, my routine.