Sloggy

Sometimes writing is really a slog. Since most of life is a slog these days, writing feels extra –sloggy. Sort of soggy and waterlogged like tromping through a swamp with thick mud adhering to the shoes and sucking the feet down with each slow step forward. Sloggy, sloggy, boggy, muddy slog.

Gotta write something, and fast, because I’ve got other stuff to do. None of it fun either. None of it terrible but none of it fun. All about deadlines and worst cases and preparing to handle things even harder than now. When now is actually plenty hard enough, thank you.

The creativity in my brain feels like it has shrunk down into a little dried pea, rattling around in a pot emptied by worries and scoured black by cares. Just a little dried speck, trying to juice up and give me enough words to competently just describe a simple program. I’m mean, I’m not even looking for REAL creativity, I’m not even trying to write something fun and made up, where characters become people, people that other people actually care about for years or even decades after their creation, in the way that fans are still attending conventions to argue passionately about Buffy and her ilk almost two decades later. No, I’m just trying to straightforward, vanilla pudding describe something. Maybe persuade slightly. Something I should have mastered at age 15. And I am stuck, stuck, stu…