I know I promised a memoir post for today, but I lied.
(If you are new to my blog–I’m writing a memoir about growing up in an organized crime family. To read chapter 1, click here.)
My intentions were good. I fully intended to deliver but have, in fact, failed.
My week away from the blogosphere was, without a doubt, one of the least productive of the past year—if not the last several decades–as far as writing is concerned.
It was just that good. (And I never-ever exaggerate.)
It added up to whole lot of nothing but waiting around, twiddling my Sharpies, waiting for inspiration to strike.
It. Never. Did.
To say I struck out would be more like it.
So today, I have nothing interesting to say, no pitiful gardening injuries to report (though I have been gardening), no tales of mafia intrigue to tell—only a rehashing of the old, woe-is-me motif to offer.
(Seriously, it was a crazy-busy week, so much so that I got NO writing done!)
So, here’s to writing nothing. Here’s to honest liars—the ones who close their eyes, cross their toes, try really hard, and still manage to fail on an epic scale.
When’s the last time you managed to mess up in a big way? How’s your writing life these days?
(So sorry to have missed all of your amazing posts this past week. I’ll be back to reading regularly again tomorrow.)