excuses

Does it count if I'm just writing about how I don't feel like writing?

Sometimes that is all that can break the doldrums, and it would be too easy to just assume that my last "Anatomy of an Effup" is going to rain down showers of pity on me and no one's going to be bothered that I'm not writing. It is not supposed to matter what you think, though. I mean, you do matter immensely, of course (just ask the IRS) but not when I'm perpetrating my acts of creation. That's between me and the Universe. Still, I feel rotten.

Also, on the topic of my "anatomy", so to speak, I am starting up the school year again this week, and because I teach at a private school where ludicrous (yet fun) things are routinely done, I have to start the year by going away on Wednesday to a camp in the mountains, where computers are anathema.

This means that I have to either write this week's anatomy post tomorrow, without as much time as I'd like to chaw on it, or do it on Saturday when I get back and am screaming for rest on the cellular level. Which might be the sort of all-natural drug I need to get me to say the sorts of things I'm trying very hard to bottle up.

So, I guess that means I've found what I'm writing for: a way to overcome excuses. I am a world-champion excuse-maker and it's gotten me out of a whole lot of actual living. I think all I need to do is just wait until I'm too tired to resist myself. See you Saturday.