Good morning, fellow bloggers.
(Because, let’s face it, no one reads blogs except other bloggers.)
I am writing this to you from the warm, cozy environs of my comfy chair, which is situated in the warm, sunny lowlands of Saturday morning.
I should be up and about and doing things, but it’s Saturday morning and a time for eschewing things. I was always taught the one should eschew things well to prevent one from swallowing too much at one time.
If one can’t be lazy on Saturday morning, then when CAN one be lazy? My employer frowns upon such behavior during working hours, and, later today, and all day tomorrow, laziness will draw decidedly jaundiced eyes from others whom I apparently work for for free.
So, Saturday morning it is, then. I like to carve this heavenly little tenth or twelfth of a day out for myself to do whatever I like. That mostly consists of berating myself for being lazy and for not being a more prolific writer.
“Hemingway,” I like to tell myself frequently, “Would have already written another novel by this time in the morning before getting up to get himself another cup of coffee … or whiskey.”
“But,” I like to console myself, “He was an early riser, and I am not. And that can mean the difference between writing a full novel by 10 AM, or merely a piece of flash fiction. Or a tiny little blog post about nothing.”
I am quite good at consoling myself about not being a prolific writer. Or an early riser. Or anything at all, really.
But this is also the one time of the week that I don’t care.