It’s a beautiful crisp spring day here in [location redacted]. The sky is blue, the Japanese maple is newly red. Even the house across the street looks sharp and vinyl-pretty against the bright sky.
One of my friends is at the writing residency where we met, where on days like today I would get up and step into a bathroom that had been converted into a tiny writing room. I would see the same kinds of trees against the sky and hear the sightseeing buses snort down the street.
In short, I should be writing. But instead I have an overdue paper and grades that are due. I spent an embarrassing amount of time yesterday tallying participation and figuring out grades. Adjunct math is a sad, backwards affair.
If I had nothing to do, I would probably be picking fights with Sarah W. by text or ranting on CougarSon’s blog. I would suddenly be inspired to weed my garden or buy skeletal flamingos to plant in my yard to irritate my neighbor. The closest thing I would do to writing would be to peruse the world’s best essay submission list.
Ain’t that always the way?
What’s your paradox?