Today was not a day for writing. At least not for me. Oh, I got some done. But it was a struggle. I worked on three versions of a story I intended to submit to a contest. Finally, with only hours to spare before the deadline, I decided to give up and submit a story for consideration. I submitted the same story to a critique group. I expect it to be received with the same degree of receptivity as it garnered in terms of pride of authorship; I am embarrassed to have written it. Why, I wonder, are some days just miserable slush pots in which words are turned into slurry, unintelligible syllables that warrant nothing more than a trip to the shredder? I have no answer to that.
But, the day was not entirely wasted. I spent a few hours at church this morning (I know, it’s not like me), listening to old-style New Orleans/Dixieland/early jazz. It turned out to be a more interesting, livelier, more intriguing experience than I expected; and I expected quite a lot. Suffice it to say I believe the organizers ought to be rewarded with applause and accolades.
Then, later, I went to the Superior Bathhouse/Brewery with a friend. We chatted, on the way, about religion and politics; both are safe topics, inasmuch as we’re both in the same general ballpark with respect to both topics. We don’t share the same tastes in beer, but that’s okay. As long as I can control the beer that goes home with me.
Tomorrow, I meet two of my writing colleagues for coffee at a local coffee house. This is the second week running when we’ve met to chit-chat. I hope it turns into a regular thing.
But, back to writing. I am in a lull. That’s all right, though. My attention is directed elsewhere; France, for example. I’m into learning about the south of France at the moment. For good reason.