A Working Sunday

I am sitting here on a Sunday morning and by “sitting here” I mean fidgeting endlessly, trying to make myself address any one of the array of assignments I’m responsible for. I could:

  • finish reading and reviewing short-fiction workshop stories
  • write a 1200-word commentary on H.L. Mencken and what he means to political humor today
  • write something for my “Story-a-Day” project
  • keep plugging away at a 60-page script for which I have seven pages complete
  • outline a quest for an on-campus MMO project for which I’m lead writer
  • call and interview someone for a 4,000-word nonfiction article I’m responsible for
  • take a shower and eat breakfast

Argh! I have set before myself an incredibly ambitious amount of work, so much that all I want to do right now is curl up and fall back asleep in spite of the pot of coffee I just drank. This is the moment I’m working to overcome; I would like to have this amount of work not even faze me, but right now I feel frozen to the spot. I’m a stevedore at the wharf, loading boxes onto a ship and above me unwinding at steady pace is a heavy rope which supports a pallette of claw-foot bathtubs. I’m growing cold in the shadow of this calamity, but can’t move my feet and all the jazz in the world isn’t helping.

I aim to read this later when some of this has paid off and laugh, but right now it’s SO FRUSTRATING. /presses nose to grindstone


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