Back.

Spring has sprung.


Dusk has been stretched again into that long, linger-y hour where laughter rings and frisbees are thrown and Blue Moons are drunk.


And with the coming of spring, I'm writing again. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I'm a yo-yo dieter when it comes to getting the words to actually stick to the page, but I'll try again.


Bob Goff told a friend of mine to read Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art. And she told me to read it. I like them both (and the chapters were short), so I did. This little passage feels particularly applicable to the matter at hand:


"What's particularly insidious about the rationalizations that Resistance presents to us is that a lot of them are true. They're legitimate. Our wife may really be in her eighth month of pregnancy; she may in truth need us at home. Our department may really be instituting a changeover that will eat up hours of our time. Indeed it may make sense to put off finishing our dissertation, at least till after the baby's born.


What Resistance leaves out, of course, is that all this means diddly. Tolstoy had thirteen kids and wrote War and Peace. Lance Armstrong had cancer and won the Tour de France three years and counting.


If Resistance couldn't be beaten, there would be no Fifth Symphony, no Romeo and Juliet, no Golden Gate Bridge. Defeating Resistance is like giving birth. It seems absolutely impossible until you remember that women have been pulling it off successfully, with support and without, for fifty million years."


I work three days a week and have no kids, no mortgage and no dog. I suppose I could take a minute or two and jot a few things down.