The Word Count is still 1001.
I had it all worked out. I sliced up my time and fit it into neat little mental compartments. I said to myself, “This compartment is unalterable” (thus alerting Murphy — he of Murphy’s Law — that I needed a visit.) So, yesterday when I went into work and my boss said, “Down-size.” I spent the evening researching jobs and filling out applications. It seems that in the face of starvation (figurative) unalterable time schedules can be altered.
Stay tuned ….
Blogging eats time. I need to reclassify some of the time I feed to blogging and call it my writing time. From now on, starting the moment I hit “post” on this blog, I cannot write a blog post or comment on anybody’s site until I have written at least 700 words of my story-in-progress first.
To add insult to what you may be considering your injury, my story-in-progress will not be shared on the blog. I am writing for publication and putting it here makes it less likely to thrill an editor. Sorry. On the plus side, when/if it sells I will be sure to tell you to whom and how you can get it for yourself.
I know that you all want the best for me and understand that if I want my dream of being a published writer to ever be more than a dream, then I have to put in the necessary time and energy. In the meantime, rest assured that I am alive and well and right (write) here at the keyboard.
Oh yeah! (hehe) We’re home from Friday Harbor and we’re safe.
Today I washed all the wet stuff. Removed sand from places sand shouldn’t be. Unpackd. Tidied. Cleaned. Shopped. Cooked. Cleaned some more. Visited (I hope) all my blog buddies and left them comments on one or two of their posts, and edited my photos, but now I am far too tired to post and am dragging my sagging butt to bed. Tomorrow is another day. Good nightzzzzzzz.
The grown-ups wanted us dead. I have proof. Winton Elementary School in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho was built on the edge of a cliff. There was a 35-foot embankment not ten yards from the back door where I lined up every morning before fourth grade.
There was no fence. There was no barbed wire. There were no patrol dogs. THERE WERE NO CONCERNED PARENTS.
We were told to stay away from the cliff, the grownups of my childhood thought that was sufficient. If some child wandered too close and fell off, the general response was: “Damn idiot kid. He was told to stay away from there. Don’t know what his problem is. When that back-brace comes off I’m tanning his stupid hide.”
The cliff wasn’t all though — there was also the playground equipment; that we weren’t told to stay away from. In fact, if a day at school didn’t sufficiently maim enough kids, our parents would send us back after school. “Get out from under my feet! Go play on the playground. I’ll call you for dinner.”
I don’t know why we never figured out that the grownups were trying to kill us. They’d paint us in Mercurochrome, paste band-aids on us, or brace us with splints, and push us right back out the door.
We went willingly — and called it fun.
More stories like this posted on my blog: The Grown-Ups Wanted Us Dead, where an observant person might even discover why my sister, Jackie, calls me CB. The latest story, posted just today, is: The Hole.
I’d like to come and cheer you up with a special song or ditty.
I’d like to write a comic treatsie to show you I’m quite witty.
I’d like to write a story that only QuillDancer could pen,
Or I’d like to write a lovely poem and all your affections win.
I’d like to do whatever it takes to keep you in this spot,
But this nonsense poem, I’m sorry to say, is really all I’ve got.
For those of you who’ve waited all night for this pathetic verse:
Now aren’t you sorry that you thought my silence was a curse?