... enjoying the Clarion Journals, like everyone else, I suppose ...
June 17, 1999
6:19 a.m.
I'm struggling again, and I'm not sure what the real problem is.  Maybe it's the coffee, maybe it's the nerves, maybe it's the silence, maybe it's the words. Maybe it's the lack of time, maybe it's the plot, maybe it's the character, that's giving me a clot. :) I'm having a real hard time concentrating right now, and I don't know why. Maybe it's because everything about this one is difficult and foreign--it's like being on a planet where they don't have arms and hands, meaning that I can't speak the language and no one understands hand-signals. So, every step is a struggle. Every step requires falling off a cliff and picking myself up again. Sometimes being a writer can really suck eggs. Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I know ... cry me a burning river. This has been a great year to date. After I got the note from Altair Lisa looked at me and smiled, then said. "You're doing well this year." She's right, of course. But I don't really feel that way this morning. How I feel on a day to day basis is mostly overwritten by how things are progressing with the work I'm doing now. Because, you know, NOW is what seems to matter most pretty much all the time. And NOW my plot is mired in radioactive waste product. Okay. I'm grumpy.   Yesterday, Brigid went to the dentist to have baby teeth extracted. She was a real trooper, sitting in the back of the car quietly on the trip there. I diverted her attention by playing silly games with her in the waiting room, then she calmly walked in when the nurse called her. The novacaine numbed her lips pretty good there for several hours, and she had a hard time eating--finally settling on only apple sauce. We had ice cream afterward, and overall she did great. So, perspective is called for. I'm sitting here moaning about my so called story this morning, complaining and wailing and gnashing my teeth over something I have total control over, while upstairs my daughter sleeps after handling the act of having part of her body forceably removed. Yeah, it's only baby teeth. But she's also only ten-years-old. No comments about my own emotional age allowed, okay? Take it easy. And don't worry ... I'll be over it tomorrow.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"My lip feels like Jar Jar Binks' tongue." Brigid |
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