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"At the Block"
Mar. 28th, 2021 09:40 am"When will it be," I wondered aloud to the dogs, "that I finally will find myself without something to write about? And what will I do then? Just not write something? No. That seems like the wrong thing to do."
Tilly ran to the fence to bark at the neighbor's dog, and Charlie ran after her immediately to whine about not being able to play with the neighbor's dog.
"Anyway," I continued to the large broom that I desperately needed to use to sweep off the porch, "this is a good thing, this 'having to write every day' thing. Don't they say that if you want to call yourself a writer, then you should be writing every day? I mean, I don't personally think that's fair; I call myself a writer sometimes (though rarely in person, I'll freely admit) and I really don't write every single day."
I picked up the broom and started pushing the leaves off of the back porch. Florida in spring is a lot like anywhere else in autumn, with the leaves changing colors and falling off the trees. Except it comes with the added bonus of heat and humidity, so this was the time of year that I was always having to sweep off that porch.
"But then," I asked the leaves as they formed little piles off the edges of the porch, which then became my husband's problem, "can I really call myself a writer if I'm not writing every day? When my friend mentioned off-handedly at a party that he hadn't gotten around to reading that collection of my writing I gave him, and that girl I just met asked me point blank if I was a writer, I shied away from answering, 'Yes!' Why is that? Maybe I feel like I'm not a writer because I'm not in the habit and I probably wouldn't be writing if there wasn't something at stake. But this is helping me get in the habit. So I really should try and write something."
With my porch finally cleaned off, I sat down in the chair and looked out on my backyard. It was crying out for a good raking, so the green could finally come back. I decided to call that a chore for the afternoon, when my husband could join me. I gathered my thoughts for a moment.
"Well, I'm sure I'll come up with something."
Tilly ran to the fence to bark at the neighbor's dog, and Charlie ran after her immediately to whine about not being able to play with the neighbor's dog.
"Anyway," I continued to the large broom that I desperately needed to use to sweep off the porch, "this is a good thing, this 'having to write every day' thing. Don't they say that if you want to call yourself a writer, then you should be writing every day? I mean, I don't personally think that's fair; I call myself a writer sometimes (though rarely in person, I'll freely admit) and I really don't write every single day."
I picked up the broom and started pushing the leaves off of the back porch. Florida in spring is a lot like anywhere else in autumn, with the leaves changing colors and falling off the trees. Except it comes with the added bonus of heat and humidity, so this was the time of year that I was always having to sweep off that porch.
"But then," I asked the leaves as they formed little piles off the edges of the porch, which then became my husband's problem, "can I really call myself a writer if I'm not writing every day? When my friend mentioned off-handedly at a party that he hadn't gotten around to reading that collection of my writing I gave him, and that girl I just met asked me point blank if I was a writer, I shied away from answering, 'Yes!' Why is that? Maybe I feel like I'm not a writer because I'm not in the habit and I probably wouldn't be writing if there wasn't something at stake. But this is helping me get in the habit. So I really should try and write something."
With my porch finally cleaned off, I sat down in the chair and looked out on my backyard. It was crying out for a good raking, so the green could finally come back. I decided to call that a chore for the afternoon, when my husband could join me. I gathered my thoughts for a moment.
"Well, I'm sure I'll come up with something."
