Thursday, the day before Friday

Greetings

Hump day has come and gone, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. Now we begin that part of the week which I call “the countdown.” When I get to work tonight, 3rd shift, in case I neglected to mention it, I will say to myself, “only 16 hours till the weekend.” It is not that I dislike my job, as far as jobs go I’ve had far, far worse, it is just that I like my non-work life so much more.

I was going to post a poem today. Sorry, but I still don’t seem to have the insert/upload thing down pat. It works great, gives me a link and an anchor and when I test it it goes to a download file. I will try to master this talent as quickly as possible. I have mentioned in an earlier post that I am a luddite and working with computers is like swimming against the current. Well, here’s proof.

I finished a scene on my current project. It is a short story titled “The Curious Item That Fell Out Of The Sky.” It is taking longer than I wanted it to basically because I have overbooked my waking hours and am having difficulty finding some writing time. I have other projects that need attention and loose deadlines for each project. Deadline in the sense that when I meet with my writing group, Gypsy Muse, I would like to have it ready for them to critique.

Other stuff, we are losing another experienced employee in my department. This lady has eighteen years experience and will be sorely missed. We are having a pot luck to send her off. I wish her well in her new endeavor.

Gym tomorrow, I may have mentioned the coach likes really intense workouts on Friday. The theory being, I have two days to recover. The coach is 24 years old and already has three years experience in physical therapy. This is, I believe, his last year in college. He is working on a degree in kinesiology. I am 60 years old and tell him from time to time that if I didn’t pay him, I would have him arrested for elder abuse.

Nothing more to say except that I am thinking about writing a short steam punk story. It will entail a bit of research but steam punk is pretty cool and would lend itself well to a story populated with unique, curious and eccentric characters. That just happens to be the kind of crowd I like to hang with.

Must finish other projects before starting new one. Must finish other projects before starting new one. Must finish other projects before starting new one. If I make that sentence a mantra maybe I’ll actually wait to start another project. Probably not and here’s why. I tend to write about whichever character is telling me their story, in other words, yelling the loudest. Sounds weird I know but that’s the way I write.

Oh yeah, the scale said 256.0, up two pounds. It’s water weight, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Till tomorrow, be safe, be happy, be creative.

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Categories: Exercise, Writing | 3 Comments

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3 thoughts on “Thursday, the day before Friday

  1. Maurice Newport

    Hearing voices, are you now, O Great Smokified One?

    HEAR THE VOICE
    by: William Blake (1757-1827)

    HEAR the voice of the Bard,
    Who present, past, and future, sees;
    Whose ears have heard
    The Holy Word
    That walk’d among the ancient trees;

    Calling the lapsèd soul,
    And weeping in the evening dew;
    That might control
    The starry pole,
    And fallen, fallen light renew!

    ‘O Earth, O Earth, return!
    Arise from out the dewy grass!
    Night is worn,
    And the morn
    Rises from the slumbrous mass.

    ‘Turn away no more;
    Why wilt thou turn away?
    The starry floor,
    The watery shore,
    Is given thee till the break of day.’

  2. Overgrown Elf

    Thank you, my friend, that is lovely. The only trouble is I feel inspired to write some poetry and I haven’t the time.

    Muses

    The muses come.
    The muses go.
    They sing my heart.
    They speak my soul.

    I spin these tales,
    as told to me.
    I pen these words
    and set them free.

    The muses seek
    kindred souls
    so many tales
    as yet untold.

    Overgrown Elf
    9/1/12

    Well maybe one baby poem, I guess.

  3. Maurice Newport

    And so you did… and so I ask you, how can you stop a baby being born?

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