I never post on Saturdays.
It feels weird. Like when you get up at 4:00 am voluntarily for a flight, or a run, or because you have nutball toddlers, and everyone else in the world is asleep and you are… not. Feels weird.
But take heart. I am posting anyway. Working through the weirdness, working on my mad NaBloPoMo skillz.
However. NaBloPoMo leaves us alone on weekends – no post prompts. They’re all, ‘You just free write on weekends. Just write and be FREE. See how freeing this is? This writing with no place to go or any point to make at all, really? Just let all your lovely and profound poetic thoughts tinkle down on the page (that kinda sounded wrong). You know how Snow White could just break into song at any minute? And all the animals of the forest were really well versed on chorusing and also basic choreography? That’s how easy it should be – just write it, and the singing chipmunks will come and perch on the laptop and chatter along.
Again. That just sounded a bit weird.
This is HARD. My Disney moment with the birdies and the writing… my Disney birdies have done flown away.
I started teaching back in my early twenties. I was a dewy-eyed young thing, full of great ideas and love for my craft. And one of my favorite FAVORITE things to do to my students? THE DAILY FREAKING FREE WRITE.
“Just let your mind wander,” I would chirp, “Just move your pen along the page and allow the spirit to move YOU” (scary, right?).
Well, students, I am sorry. THERE. I SAID IT.
That free write thing? It’s splinter removal. It’s like Braxton Hicks. It’s kinda like undergoing one of those intense cleanse things you see commercials for late night television. *
I am so sorry you guys had to undergo the daily lower intestinal writing purge, my sweet students. I was naive and underpaid.
*My editor informed me that this analogy is almost stepping into tasteless humor. She also pleaded with me to not include any cute pix of a singing colon. I was a bit torn on this; humor should never go to waste. In the end, I did feel moved to agree that a dancing colon might be a wee bit below the belt.