My brain is like a cat. It wants in, it wants out, it wants in again. The snow is beautiful, but there is so much of it, and I can’t really get anywhere while it’s falling. I have work to do at home, but my brain wants in, it wants out, it wants in again.
As per the submission guidelines of Tahoma Literary Review, I am writing something I am afraid to show my writing group. It is hard to shape and hard to write. It is making me look at myself with more depth. It’s helping me break through with the memoir. It’s an attempt to make myself a better person.
[Management acknowledges that the last sentence was terribly pretentious, but please do not judge poor Indy too harshly.] There are three ways to get into my house, and I’ve shoveled each entrance at least once so far today. Shoveling is one of the few outside chores I am actually good at. I’m not sure what makes someone bad at shoveling, but I weed like a drunken two-year-old and potted plants shiver at my approach.
To-do lists slide across my consciousness. How many times can you copy over the five vitally important items that you needed to do last month (by which I probably mean December) before you have yourself declared mentally incompetent? Although I’m not actually unhappy, I’m hard to live with.
This might be the mental equivalent of itchy winter skin. I can’t read, I can’t watch TV. I’m hoping when the snow stops falling I can walk to the library and find some new books, ones that can hold my attention. Until then I’m going to be scrambling around the Internet, alternately working, writing, and losing my mind.
What do you do in February?