Yikes, I let a couple of days get by without a blog post. Unless you count Saturday’s Flash Fiction. I DON’T. Those little Flash Fictions, tangential though they may be to the Project, count as REAL WRITING, and the blog doesn’t. Never mind that some of my blog posts go on longer than some of my daily court-mandated Project writing (The court, of course, is the court convened by my id-writer and his slavering, ink-blood crazed alter egos). It doesn’t count for my daily WordCount ™ and it therefore does not count.
That said, I feel a little bit of failure when I don’t get around to posting just a little bit here. Okay, my frame of reference is not long enough for me to claim a statistically significant sample size (alliteration x4, c-c-c-combo!) but I feel like if my daily progress on the Project is the equivalent of hooking the car up to a two-ton trailer and dragging it down a muddy road to make some productive work happen, then my writing here on the Blarg (yep, just renamed the Blog to “The Blarg”, make it so) is the equivalent to unhooking the trailer and driving 200 miles an hour down a side street. It burns out the gunk, clears the pipes, stretches the metaphorical legs of my metaphorical engine so that I can do more metaphorical “writing”. Wait, the legs aren’t metaphorical. And neither is the “writing.” (The quotation marks, however, ARE metaphors — for the BLINDERS I HAVE TO PUT ON TO GET THE GOLDFINGER WRITING DONE SOME DAYS.)
At any rate, failure to blog felt a little bit like failure to write over the weekend, although I clearly did that. Upon further review, the ruling on the field stands, and I am DonDraper pleased with my latest bit of Flash Fiction, The First Wave. That one took me in new directions on a couple of fronts and, well, I said it already but I’m pleased with it. Go me.
In fact, The First Wave felt doubly like a success because I completed it under duress: I wrote about 60% of it on the car ride back from my nephew’s birthday party in Alabama. I deliberately did not name the city in which we were in (oh man, my English teacher brain hated letting that one slip by), not out of a concern for anonymity or avoidance of non-existent stalkers, but because it’s Fargoing Alabama which means it doesn’t matter what part of it I spent the day in, it was still Alabama, and that’s bad enough, isn’t it. (My apologies to friends, relations, and other acquaintances who might enjoy Alabama, or worse yet, live there. But you live in Alabama. Come on.) So yeah. Conceived and written under the duress of Alabama. Huge W-I-N.
Then I took Sunday off. And proceeded to do nothing with the entire day except go to the store and flollop around the house. A rare and pretty glorious day, one that merited a break even from Blarging.
But it’s Monday, and that means a return to the breach. It was a busy day at work, compounded by the fact that I’m taking a day off in the middle of the week. By the way, as a teacher, calling it a “day off” from work is a complete misnomer. Because there is no respite. You have to leave an assignment that the kids aren’t going to do. You have to decide how harshly to penalize the students who don’t do the assignment and how to fairly balance that against the poor kids who, bless them, actually do the assignment and continue to distinguish themselves from the herd, like golden manatees in a slobbering, sorry school of sea-cows (c-c-c-combo!). And then you’ve lost a day of instruction and you have to get back into the rhythm. And then there’s administrative business coming down the pike that you missed on that day, but, surprise, the information you missed on Monday is needed to properly complete paperwork on Tuesday and oh, you’ll just have to come meet with your administrator for thirty minutes to get “caught up”, just come in during your planning period WHEN YOU’RE TRYING TO GRADE PAPERS AND GET BACK ON TRACK FROM THE DAY YOU MISSED AND DON’T FORGET TO CARVE OUT A BIT OF TIME DURING LUNCH TO GET YOUR WORDCOUNT FOR THE DAY IN RAARRRGH BLARGFARGLE *begins throwing cats*
I’m not going to lie. Teaching is not a bad gig a lot of the time. But it’s also a little bit demanding and overwhelming and stressful a lot of the time. If you have a teacher in your life, hug them. Seriously. This is what we’re up against:
That was written by an 18-year old. (The green is mine. If you look closely, you can see the hopelessness with which I wrote it.)
…Yeah, you might have gathered that I did not get my desired word count done during the day. But it’s all good. I’ve finished it up this evening (almost 1400 words today) and topped it off with this post which is creeping toward the 1000 word mark, which means it’s time to stop it BEFORE THIS BLARG POST BECOMES SENTIENT AND BEGINS EATING MY BLOODY FINGERSTUMPS.
I keep meaning to post more about parenting and running. The sprout has had a couple of gems lately that really are worth relating and I’m getting back up to speed (oh god, the puns have started, RUN [OH GOD IT’S GETTING WORSE]) with the running and I have some musings to post about that. But that will have to wait.
Here’s a favorite passage from today’s work. It’s not particularly lyrical or evocative, but I felt it captured pretty well a moment that would be much easier to capture onstage or in film. Word pictures!
- Andy nodded at her. She nodded back at him. He continued nodding, turning his nods toward Thalia, who received them, smiling, and returned them. He nodded up at Lexi again. She nodded back again, helplessly. Clearly it was up to Lexi to take hold of the situation.
Now, to do some dishes and sleep. Yeah, I go to sleep at 9:30, wanna fight? (I do not want to fight.)