We are on day 143 of 15 days to slow the spread.
It’s Tuesday morning and Tropical Storm Isaias is raining down on the Atlantic coast. I think the steady downpour started at our house around dinner time last night when we all looked at the drenched cat and said “we told you didn’t want to go out.”
Nature called around 5:00 this morning. I’d still be in bed, but apparently, she left a message for both dogs who were desperate to go out in the rain. After that it was obvious that I’d be the only one in the household not able to go back to sleep.
So, I’ve been reading, writing, finishing an art project and listening to the news.
The rain is supposed to stop around noon at which point the freshly nourished grass will be desperate for a haircut.
These are all somewhat trivial things, but after 47 years in lock down, even the trivial takes on a certain level of importance.
Long term readers, and if you aren’t you should be, will recall that I’ve been endeavoring to write a least a thousand words a day for…almost five years now.
That’s a little depressing because the initial title of this project, based on my retirement plans, was “How I Wrote My Ass Out of Hell.”
I haven’t retired yet. Thanks to the virus, that’s going to be delayed a little longer. But I’ve become somewhat content with the situation. The day job, with all of its annoyances, is a good, solid job, and I do it well.
I’ve moved into sort of a groove with theater and performance, and I’ve got more realistic writing plans.
I guess what I’m saying is that writing the thousand words a day has been cheaper, and perhaps more effective, than therapy.
On a side note, if I die unexpectedly, please delete all my files and clear my cache.
Honestly, Mr. FBI, it was research.
Some five years before I started the daily project, I shifted my view from saying “I want to be a writer” to “I am a writer.”
And, I am. Sometimes a good one.
The writing journey, however, has been interesting. It’s become more about the writing than about the income.
I mean, I’m still trying to figure out how to make the writing, and the art, and the theater pay enough to allow for the early retirement.
I’m not there yet.
I’ll be there before I reach my “full retirement age” which, according to the Social Security Administration is a little more than four years.
In the meantime, the storm, the virus, and the news are all giving me plenty of things to write about.
I think I’ll go back to bed.