Is it wrong that “excruciation” is one of my favorite words? All matters of meaning aside, I just like the turn of the scroosh.
Speaking of excruciation, however, this has been a brutal week. I spent most of the weekend brooding, mulling over matters I have tabled for far too long, and Monday was spent trying to find my footing as I returned to work. Bad news and little bitternesses piled up, which of course affected my writing. Tuesday consequently was spent hashing out a draft that seemed inspired in the morning, but by the afternoon I was able to recognize it for what it was: self-indulgent dreck. Wednesday I accordingly turned to a new project, even though I was afraid that I’d derailed my train. Eight hours earned me three lines, a point of origin with no destination in sight or in mind. I normally end each day with a serving of cognitive comfort food (which nowadays takes the form of reruns), but last night was devoted to a little bonus brooding. I had that odd, unshakable feeling that something had been lost, or worse yet, squandered.
Rather than belaboring my bedevilment, I figured I would use today’s post as a standing reminder of a central Wandlessian fact: I am often wrong.
Have a merry holiday; it’s time for me to write.
