Writing for the Day

Nothing. Something. I have no idea. What happened to "automatic writing"? Wasn't that Poe who did that or was it Coleridge? Time is passing. Nothing is coming to me. The muse has drifted away into the clouds today. Maybe I need another cup of coffee or maybe I should write in my yellow legal pad with a sharpened pencil. No thoughts. Blank mind.

Oh, maybe I'm in a yoga trance or doing some sort of transcendental meditation. I could be lazy. Slothfulness is a disability of writers from time to time. This could be possible in that I went back to bed this morning and woke up at noon when a friend called to tell me he changed his phone number again so some woman wouldn't be able to call him any more. I told him he could just forward his calls to my house and I'd tell her I was his wife. He said he didn't want to do that. With this timely phone call, I decided another cup of coffee might help. So since then I have now brushed the dog again. It is becoming my latest obsession. Soon my wheaten terrier will be bald I'm afraid from all the grooming. I checked my bank account, my e-mail, Facebook and Twitter. I don't think these things count as productive activities when you get up at noon and have only groomed the dog. I'm not sure writing counts as productive either when you have no earthly idea what to write about.

Oh I did post a writer friends comment about health care on my Facebook page as he suggested doing if I agreed with his comment. It was something to the effect that no one should go without insurance because they didn't have money and no one should die because they didn't have health insurance. Now that's something to write about, but it's probably already been said in the 1000 page proposal of the President. I guess I could personalize it by telling them how my mother couldn't get insurance because of previous illness and then had cancer that we paid for out-of-pocket back in the sixties. I could tell about the time I couldn't get health insurance because I had been in therapy with a psychologist. I was rather shocked in that I had been married to a therapist, and I thought therapy was right up there with eating, sleeping and breathing, something necessary to life enhancement like spirituality or medical care for physical illness.

I guess I'm in too much of a rambling mood today to write. This would be a good page in Alice James collection of letters I'm reading as they are always rambling.She was the chronically ill sister of William and Henry James and often talked about her own death. So now to the real work of the day, I will wash clothes, sweep the floors, and dust the furniture and shop for groceries. But first maybe I'll have lunch, more coffee and go to Curves to exercise.