Saturday night, I was feeling glum. I’d had a completely nonproductive day. Nothing got done. All I did, all day, was:
- strung twine in an attempt to corral the raspberries
- spent an hour hacking weeds from alongside the driveway where the city removed a tree
- wandered the mall for three hours looking for a good pair of shorts
- spent 10 minutes at Michael’s debating buying more drawing pens, then ordered pens online
- submitted a story
- moved the washer and dryer back in place (I’d had to move them so the sewer service people could reach the cleanout)
- picked vegetables
- read a chapter of a book about writing
- lots of dishes
- various other household cleaning chores
See what’s missing? That would be the flash story I was supposed to be writing this weekend. I started it Friday night–usually my night off from writing–and poked at it a little bit Saturday morning, but it was clearly not enough.
To my crazy brain, not getting a draft of that story meant the whole day was a waste. Even though I now have three pairs of shorts with good pockets, and my neighbors will stop glaring at my yard.
As annoying as that is, I guess it’s a good thing. It means writing is a habit, and I miss it when I don’t do it.
I wrote the story on Sunday. Sunday was a good day.