Well, this is an awesome month. I’m weird, because of years trudging through the Columbus public school system I liken September to the beginning of the year, so I’m feeling especially um..potential-y? Yeah, we’ll call that a word.
Anyway, it’s Wednesday, so let’s do some writing! There are a lot of great things happening in the city this month, among them Ohio Comic Con, and also Context 26! Context hosts a slew of great writing panels you should check out, here is a link to the schedule, if you’re in C-bus we should roll in like a biker gang, with like pens and stuff. It’d be neat.
Context Workshop Schedule Link : http://www.contextsf.org/workshop.htm
Okay, done with the yammering, let’s get scribblin’!
You have to forgive the first one of the day. It’s your foggy heartbeat. It’s that erotica you wrote that made you giggle. Call it a ritual. Call it a filler episode. Call it a Mulligan. Don’t call it cheating. You’ll do better as the day goes on, because you’re going to finally do this the right way. You know what the day has in store? It’s more of the same, and less of the anything else. It’s a glacier, wrapped in stone and reinforced with steel. You could use a little bit of fire. A patch? A stick of gum? Yeah, not so much. You need flame. You need spark. Just a little though, you want this quitting thing to really happen.
Dressed, pressed and thrilled to be distressed you get in the car and you make your way to the office. Traffic stalls your quest at Schrock and Cleveland Road, it’s always Schrock and Cleveland. It’s your gatekeeper, it will determine if you’re ten minutes early, or twenty minutes late, and today, glaring at you with the reddest of eyes it tells you, I’m sorry Dave, I can’t let you do that. So why not do a little people watching Mr. Writer? Maybe she’s there, the ink blot of a woman, roughly kept sandbags beneath her eyes; they’re torn in all the right places. You’re involved, so, this isn’t about that, not really, but you still feel the overwhelming urge for her to see you as cool. There’s an easy fix for that, and it’s in your shirt pocket. She’s busy, and on her I-Something a world is falling apart without the gentle tap of her fingers. You pull, you pinch, you puff. She can’t ignore James Dean. She can’t ignore the Marlboro Man. She finds a way to ignore you. The light changes, you drive, you’re down by two, but you’re not out yet. You’re a hero. You’re a phoenix. You’re a protagonist in an eighties sports flick. You’ll pull through just when it counts.
Then? Lunch. People don’t celebrate enough anymore, they don’t take enough time to say, hey me, we’re awesome, and we’ve accomplished all the work. It’s been a whole four and a half hours. The bologna in the pit of your belly won’t digest itself, well, it kind of will, but that doesn’t mean you can’t help. You’ve eaten food! You’ve gotten through part of the day! You’ve done the minimal required work for your field! Puff. Congrats, soldier. Puff. Mazel Tov, you’re a man now. Puff. Woo and whoo.
The thing is, you can always quit tomorrow. You can say that today is just today, and- for the love of god, you’re not actually thinking of going all Aesop with this are you? Lemme guess, today is tomorrow? Every moment is a chance to change your life? You didn’t need the cigarette to fly? Don’t cop-out of this, own it. At the end of the day, we can’t control what goes into our mouths as much as what spews from our arse. At the end of the day, you know what you need. At the end of day you’ll find the start of a new one. So smoke, but tomorrow, tomorrow you’ll be a quitter.