"Why do they [write] for their money? Why do they [work] for short pay? They ain't getting nowhere and they're losing their share. They must have gone crazy back there." — Michael Burton (paraphrased)
Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, March 10, 2018, 11:57 a.m. It's been a busy week. I got more done on Friday than any day in quite a while. Everything worked. Interview subjects called me back promptly. By the time I got finished writing about a soccer game and talking on a radio show while it was …
Continue reading My Mind Is Tired and Incapable of Suitable Organization and Motivation
Clinton, South Carolina, Wednesday, June 21, 2017, 1:08 p.m. Some days are diamonds. Some days are stones. Etc. Yesterday morning, I awakened, and Keith Jackson could have been announcing the occasion. Whoa, Nellie! He came to the living room ready to write! Get some coffee in him, and it’s Katie, bar the door! Keith was …
Marvin staggered out of bed, stopped off for a leak, and advanced boldly into the kitchen in search of a swallow of water to combat the cotton mouth. Gaining coherence and mental acuity, he applied the fundamentals of coffee making to his machine and retreated because nature was beginning to call, and, sometimes, in …
I have to protect myself. From myself. The world provides too many things to do. It’s too easy to while away a day dragging a finger across an iPhone screen on a Twitter scroll. It’s too easy to wonder what made that dog seem so happy, or that cheeseburger so succulent, on Facebook. Plus, too …
Paralysis. Groping for some coherence. Doing menial chores just as a substitute for creativity, in the desperate hope that something will arise, something out of thin air or gray matter. Pairing socks. Washing dishes. Paying bills. Biding time till something, anything, happens along. He picked up his guitar, started strumming, but he wasn’t of a …
It’s a world of opportunity. Unfortunately, it’s also a world of rationalization. I write best in the mornings. Most days I awaken brimming with ideas. Complications arise and slowly accumulate as the day makes its lonely way to sunset. By mid-afternoon, I’m bailing complications with a straw cowboy hat from a sinking rowboat. Also, time …
I might as well admit it. I’m in a bit of a slump. Or maybe it’s a rut. My wheels are spinning. Sand, perhaps. I’m lapping away. I have a picture of where my writing needs to go. It’s just in soft focus. I’m getting Monet when I need a stark, black and white photograph. …
Nightrider's Lament 