I just woke from one of those fabulous weekend naps, the unexpected four-hour kind. I now sit here with the shards of a few dreams still tumbling through my bleary brain, looking out at the tail end of a spectacular day. I feel good, but a bit guilty; I wasted a beautiful afternoon.
Friday was a great writing day, and when I get to the end of those, I usually think, "MUST! KEEP! THE MOMENTUM! GOING!!! Must outline and scheme more! Must write more! Must be even more productive than this! Yes! Yes!"
Which never works. Yesterday, even my husband noticed how lumpish and slothful I was being (although he's a dear about phrasing it as, "You look like you're having a nice relaxing weekend.") And today? Well. That wonderful nap was the apex of the excitement, although I may go for a walk before the sun sets; it's a blitzkrieg of fun here.
I seem to be the pole vaulter of writing; I come trundling toward my goal, face grave, slowly building speed. Then, when I deem myself close enough, in a burst of flailing appendages (mainly fingers), I launch myself at the scene.
Immediately afterward, I lie on my back for a while, staring at the sky and feeling pleased with myself.
What's your metaphor? Think about how you write and fill in the blank in the following sentence:
"I am the _______________ of writing."
Then explain yourself. :-)