Idle Hands

I'm not sure why it always seems to be on a Thursday when I finally sit down at the keyboard and grind out another entry for my largely unread blog. I suppose because it's far enough along in the week that I can finally unclench enough to be able to type. For the first three days of the week I'm wound up like the unfortunate watch of an obsessive compulsive savant on speed. By Thursday, my soul's mainspring has unwound enough to allow my hands to do something other than point stiffly at the passing hours as if to say, “Hey, stop that!"

Unfortunately, having spent so much of the week under about six feet of a loamy mix of gainful employment and domestic responsibility, I don't have much to write about. That is my fault. I should have been born rich, but I lacked gumption as a zygote.

Earlier this evening I toyed with the idea of pulling the sheet back from my novel, giving it a few jolts with the defibrillator, and pressing a fingertip firmly against its neck in order to ascertain if resuscitation was possible. The prognosis was not good and in the end I decided it was more humane to toe tag it and allow it the dignity of mouldering peacefully in the morgue (for there was no plot). I decided it would be better if I just started anew. It has been so long since I wrote anything on my last attempt that it would no doubt turn out to be something of a franken-novel.

But for now I'm not going to think about it. It is only Thursday. Inspiration rarely visits on Thursday. My muse generally only comes in once or twice a week to vacuum and to make the beds.

Thursday, June 2, 2011
Somewhere in Texas