Storms last night. Hot day today. It’s the kind of day where you can’t go outside for the heat . . . sitting indoors in comfy sweats with old movies streaming online is the best way to go. It’s lazy. No makeup. No phone. No worries. It’s nice. And it’s rare.
It’s like having a snow day in the middle of summer.
Strange but true.
I sit here, with my feet propped up in my recliner, laptop on my lap (where else?) and Peter Falk as Columbo reminding me that “crime does not pay.” So I’ll refrain from breaking the law today. Other than over-indulging on coffee and Diet Coke, I figure the world is safe. At least until the weather breaks.
As I sit here, composing this blog post (last minute of course because, hey, this IS me we are talking about here) I am having a hard time sitting still. And that is often the case, isn’t it? Especially with writers. We moan, we complain, we ruminate over having — NEEDING– enough time to write. And when it arrives, we find that the tiniest piece of dust on the very tippy top of the hutch in the corner of the dining room (three rooms away) should absolutely NOT be there. No way. Not on my watch. It must go.
And somewhere, there is a load of laundry that needs to be done.
So fifteen minutes after aerobic activity, after reminding myself that I need to stop tending to things that have already been tended to (twice already so let it go), and reminding myself that I need to sit down and invite the muse to come out and get busy, I am settled, fingers on keyboard, grumbling about my lack of time and why didn’t I finish the chapter I’m currently working on last week . . .
You can see how my mind works. And if you are a writer, I know you can relate.
Even when we are still, our minds are working, busy, like hamsters in wheels, conjuring ideas, making up characters, plotting death and revenge and love and success. Without moving or leaving the comfort of our homes.
There is the gleam in the eye . . . 90% frustration and 10% inspiration . . . the constant preoccupation that comes from living in our heads so much of the time. Always doing things on the inside, quiet on the outside. It’s the type of thing only a writer understands.
Even now, I am thinking of the next scene in my current project, wondering how I will torture my characters.
I know how it will go already.
I will get to the hard part, the part where I have to kill a dog or a person or write about an injury–something graphic–and I’ll shut my laptop and jump up. I’ll pace for a time, fretting, wringing my hands, wondering if writing something like that means I need therapy. Then I’ll calm down, come back to it, and finish what I started — after I dust and sweep and put another load of laundry in, of course. Somewhere along the line I’ll ponder the benefits of switching to decaf. And then I’ll talk myself out of it. My husband will ask what I’m mumbling about and why my socks don’t match . . . and why my eye is twitching.
I’ll smile my secret smile and say how much I love Sundays, especially ones where it’s too hot to work in the yard.
And so to my fellow writers, wherever you may be on this Sunday morning . . . I say GET BUSY. Hot and lazy days like this don’t come around too often. Put the coffee on, put your feet up, and get cracking. Chop chop. Time’s a-wasting.