It's cloudy and a bit cooler than it has been the past couple of days. Rain is predicted later on, to continue throughout the night. With luck I'll be able to get my few errands taken care of before the showers begin.
An hour ago I sat awhile at the picnic table overlooking the river at the far corner of the yard. I was hoping to get a shot of the oriole that's been lurking hereabouts since daybreak. Naturally, the oriole was nowhere to be seen once I'd decided to make his portrait. But a hard-working robin was busy bring home the bacon—or in his case, the worms—to his mate doing nest duties in the pine and cedar thicket nearby.
I have a column on deadline that needs writing and sending in. But for a variety of reasons I can't seem to get myself settled enough to work. Usually there's no problem—I sit at the desk, fire up the word processor with my column draft template…and start pecking away. In an hour or two—sometimes six or eight—the piece is done. I edit, give it a rest—say another hour—then edit a final time and zap the piece off to whatever publication.
Not today—or at least not this morning. While, I don't do this sort of thing often, when it happens I know myself well enough to realize it's simply best to give myself time—get out and about, take the edge off the high nervous energy level.
I should also say this is not a case of the oft-mentioned "writer's block," that complete inability to work, which has crippled more than a few of my writer friends. I've never suffered that disabling malady—probably because I'm too much of an Irish motormouth.
And truth be told, I could make this happen if I wanted/needed to; I have before, on numerous occasions. It isn't fun. I've sat at the desk upwards of twenty-four hours straight hammering out a piece that would normally have taken no more than two to get done. Moreover, if you're conscientious, honest with your self-judgement, and have the energy and bull-headedness sufficient to hold out until the job is done, the quality of the work isn't usually compromised. But forcing words and making them come reasonably well is akin to sweating blood.
Better to take the edge off and settle down some other way. To let the flow come naturally, in its own good time. Luckily I have the time, even with the deadline, to allow for such a luxury. Then, like that robin I watched earlier, I can write my piece, send it off, and thus do my own rendition of bringing home the bacon.