I hate that vacuum cleaner. It stands in my closet, out of sight, and it still bothers me.
Every week or so, I’ll settle down with a book or writing project or snack or something, and that vacuum cleaner will tap tap tap at that closet door. Disturbing me. What could it want this time?
I should be responsible. I should let it out for its exercise. I really should. But the implications paralyze me. I really must make the house presentable before letting it out. All papers off the floor, all cables kicked out of the way, maybe the trash taken out. Maybe even wash all my dishes. Not a great task, that. I only have four.
But that vacuum cleaner. I hate it. It’s so persistent.
Maybe I should take it out and shoot it. Sure. Just stand it up in my back yard, get that AK-47 I have locked away, drop in a banana clip, rock and roll. I’d sure feel better, but my neighbors would think I’m off my medication again. Can’t have that.
Maybe shove it in a gunny sack and drop it in the crick nearby? Now, that’s a thought. But who knows whether it will come back up in a couple of months, all bloated and smelly, with enough fingerprints on it to convict me? Would it help if I dusted it with lime first?
I’ll just take it to the vet. It’s old, after all. Never mind that it looks new, that it’s hardly ever been used. Just tell the vet some fantasy like it’s blind, its quality of life is gone, and can you please put it out of its misery? But I’ll feel terrible about that. Who am I to order the death of another creature?
Meanwhile, the creature in my closet keeps tapping.
Being the restless sort, I don’t do downtime very well.
It’s not correct to say I’m bored; only boring people have this problem. But for a month and a half I’ve been writing at a crazy pace. Seldom have I done less than 2,500 words in a day. Even when I don’t have a project going, I still get a few pages of verbiage out.
I just finished the first draft of a new novel, on a manual typewriter that’s even older than I am. It will sit for 40 days and 40 nights, then I’ll take it out, read it and scribble all over it with a red pen. By the time I’m done with that it’ll look like I bled all over the thing and half of the manuscript will be thrown out.
That 40 days and 40 nights, that’s the hairball. But it’s a good time to stretch my little writing legs a bit. Some short fiction, sure. Some shorter-than-that fiction, absolutely.
That’s where this blog comes in. It is a testing lab for some of my writing. Call it a lunatic’s scrawling and you may be about right. Some fiction, some nonfiction, a few screeds, basically whatever sticks to the wall.
During those 40 days, I’ll be experimenting with other forms of fiction. Some short stories. A little flash fiction. You’ll find the latter here.
After that period? Ahh, I’m always experimenting anyway. The testing lab stays up, with more stuff going in.
This is gonna be fun. Join me …