Main Street Kettle & Brew. Every day? Cocoa with no whipped cream. Dash of cinnamon. I try to write for four and a half hours, before the lunch rush comes in. I'm taking up a table, and all I buy is one cocoa. I know better than to eat into Sherman's lunch rush time.
For five weeks, I have been sitting in the same metal chair every morning by 7 AM. As I gingerly slide across its smooth surface, the familiar screech of the seat screams at me that I should just buy the damn screw. Two days ago, I had noticed it had wiggled loose on the right side, and Sherman couldn't be bothered enough to fix it. If I fell and broke my other wrist, I'd really be out of commission.
To do list: buy the screw.
Thirty- five days. Each one feeling like the decision to stop posting temporarily is becoming more permanent. A broken wrist is bad news for a blogger. Not a death sentence, but certainly an extreme inconvenience. Writing is a delicate dance between the mind and the fingers - each one knowing its rhythm and sway. Mind leads, fingers follow. But with the bum wrist now, it is not at all like losing a sense where the other senses overcompensate for the loss. Rather, I've had to revert to hunt-and-pecking again. It's not just the posting that I miss, but the commenting, the relationship-building, the whole kit and caboodle. My kit has kicked the bucket and my caboodle has lost its noodle. I considered not writing that silly sentence because of the time it took to actually write that with my hunt-and-peckers. Every word has a cost now. Each keystroke costs approximately 2.1 seconds. I know because I have timed it. Going from 121wpm to 17wpm has caused me to weigh out every word as if it were my last words from Death Row. I surely hope this is not Death Row for my blog. Oh!
To do list: brainstorm a Death Row story.
Seven thousand, eight hundred and forty days. I could have typed that number using digits. But I'm feeling defiant. I'm sitting here on a squeaky, cold, steel folding chair and, wait -is this steel? I'm the writer, I can call it steel if I want. (FINE! pause for googling what metal is traditionally used to make folding chairs because if I am still going to be a blogger then damnit, I might be slow as molasses, but I'm going to be an accurate molasshole.) Alright, Google! I'm sitting here on a squeaky, cold, CLEARLY WEAKER AND LESS STURDY ALUMINUM folding chair, and I am defiantly wasting 2.1 seconds per letter to write down my thoughts with as many descriptive, unnecessary words as I possibly can because I am a blogger and I can waste as many seconds on letters as I want.
To do list: Find out who coined the phrase "Cut off your nose to spite your face." Send them a letter with only these words inside: "So what."
470,400 minutes. I'm back to choosing digits over words. My defiance has obviously been overruled by my tired left hand. I bet you all don't think about this but I'm going to let you in on a little secret. It's difficult to do everything with your non-dominant hand. I can't seem to get used to drinking with my left hand. Everything thing feels wrong about it. You know what really feels wrong? When I have to use t
