The prompt to pick up a book and choose a word leaves me breathless…which book of the many stacked around my desk? Oh, and go to page 29. Can’t miss that part. I look at the books, all of which need to be read or studied or perused for one thing or another. C.G. Jung? Oh, my, no. Not today. Archetypes for Writers? Not. I need no more archetypes or meditations on the beyond or psychological make up of whatever. How about Boleslavsky’s Acting: The First Six Lessons. Great for building characters but I’m out of character.
I am, in fact, dear diary, about out of everything. Including energy. Not out of energy for being a writer or writing interesting sentences or even writing bad one, hence, this letter to you, but I’m so done with thinking. As least for today.
Maybe tomorrow, too. Although I can’t think about that today. Scarlett’s firm decision, I’ll think about that tomorrow seems about perfect right now.
My boat, or the raft of whatever it is made from, is leaking.
Perhaps, instead, I’ll chose a word. Say, peace or freedom or empty-headed – nope, two words there. Stop. Now there’s a word I could ponder for a while. Just sit here and stare out the window and stop. Remove my fingers from the keys and just stop. Yikes! And how, dear diary, would I then finish this post which I’m determined to do?
Well, I could ponder my neighbor across the street who has just unloaded a big roll of something out of his car’s trunk. A wrapping for a dead body? Nah. He’s not the type. Besides, I don’t write mystery or horror.
Unless of course you decide this letter is, horror of horrors, horrible. Well, now, there’s an almost useful pun on words. But I didn’t choose that word.
I chose stop and no stop signs are in sight out my window.
Living is a lot of work. Okay, no maudlin whining here. Stop that!