I can’t believe how quickly two weeks go by. In my mind, I just posted a blog a couple days ago, yet here it is, my turn again and suddenly I have to come up with an interesting subject—hell, just a subject, period—and as usual, I’m bumbling about, looking for something to say.
Since I’m a writer, you’d think this wouldn’t be tough for me. But it always is.
The truth is, I’m just not very interesting. Ever since I quit the day job, I barely ever go out of the house. In fact, I bitch and moan about it every time I have to.
“Rob, can you go to the store and get some sugar?”
“What??? Don’t we have some in the cabinet? I mean, Christ, how much of that stuff do you put your coffee?”
“Rob, just go to the store. You can walk up, get some exercise.”
“I exercised last week.”
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m suggesting it. Your ass is massive. So’s your gut. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“I try to avoid that at all cost.”
“Yeah, well you’re avoiding life in the process. You can’t spend your whole day sitting in that goddamned chair.”
“I don’t have a choice. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
This is me talking to myself, of course. I do that sometimes. Don’t we all?
Anyway, the bottom line is that quitting the day job and being without a lot of human contact has turned me inward. Not that I was exactly outward in the first place, but you know what I mean. And I am now officially a slug.
And I don’t mean one of those cute Santa Cruz banana slugs, either.
I think Mr. Battles may have the right idea. He gets up in the morning, gets dressed, grabs his laptop, jumps in his car and drives across town to a cafe, where he can watch the world go by when he’s not busy writing. Oh, and he also goes on hikes and breathes in that pristine Los Angeles air.
But I don’t think I could deal with all that. I work in a room with the door closed and the shades drawn and a fan drowning out all outside noise. I call it my “back to the womb” method of writing, where the darkness and the constant drone of that fan lull me into the creative state, allowing me to lose myself in my story. And sometimes it even works.
Rather than crave more human contact, I seem to crave it less as time goes on. I guess we adjust to our circumstances, no matter what they may be, and even become comforted by them. The routine becomes our friend.
So it shouldn’t be all that surprising that two weeks has gone by in the proverbial blink of an eye. And here I sit, searching for something worthwhile to say, and coming up blank.
My wife often suggests topics to write about. For today’s blog, she said that maybe I could talk about how I replaced a faucet yesterday—the kind of task that would normally be beyond my reach—and quickly learned that you need the right tools, the right parts, and a willingness to make mistakes in order to succeed. I could then compare that to writing and all of its stumbling blocks. The moral, of course, being, as someone much wiser than me once said, that “many of the great achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged men who kept on working.”
Now that would have been a good topic. Why didn’t I think of it?
Are you a slug, or do you get out and exercise? If you do, what kind of exercise do you like best?
And if you don’t, why the hell not?