It’s a beautiful June day and I’m off work.
Which makes it damn hard to get any writing done! I know if I stay home, I won’t get any work done. I’ll find something else to do. And my raised-in-the-80’s instincts tell me that a wonderful day like this should be spent outside. (Kid’s nowadays probably don’t notice the sun, except for when it makes their screen harder to see.)
Then again, there’s not much for me to do outside either. I just mowed the grass in my teeny, tiny yard a few days ago. My feet and ankles can’t take a lot of strain, like jogging would put on them. And riding my bike in circles around base against an occasionally stiff wind… That would get old before long.
Oh, to be 9 years old again! With friends! We’d play some damn thing and take advantage of the day!
All I can do, though, is bitch because it’s so damned nice out. How messed up is that?!
I’m actually sitting out on my back patio as I type this, but the excessive music from the elementary school’s field day across the street makes it pretty darn hard to write anything. (At least they can take proper advantage of the day!)
So I suppose I’ll go find some dark corner to hide in somewhere… Books don’t write themselves, and if I ever want to be “a writer” I guess I better get some more books out there.
Summer blues… Pretty ridiculous, eh?